


Moist

by Amuly



Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-13
Updated: 2009-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-03 22:59:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amuly/pseuds/Amuly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Donny likes to kill, fantasizes about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moist

            Donny loved to kill. He loved the feel of the bat in his hands, a second before he gripped it tight. He loved the bunching of the muscles in his arms and back as he tensed up and pulled the bat back. He loved the feel of that connection, that moment when the bat touched skull and the feeling of it reverberated up through his hands into his arms, through his torso and straight to his groin. That fucking feeling, of beating the shit out of those little fucks, of their little weak eggshell skulls cracking in with a squishy, moist feel that stayed on his palms all day, even after the blood washed away. He lived for that feeling.

            At night, after all the killing was done and the Basterds lay in their own bedding, Donny would remember that feel. He would get hard just thinking about how it felt to crush their skulls in, how his palms could feel every moment of it through the rough wood of the bat. In those silent moments in the night, Donny’s hand would creep down to his groin under the blankets and wrap around his too-hard cock.

            In the back of his mind he vaguely knew how sick and twisted this was, but his body didn’t care. With the most patience he could muster, he slowly squeezed his cock. He wanted to squeeze it like he squeezed his bat, so tight he could feel his knuckles cracking, like the bones would tear through his own skin. He couldn’t do that though: the pain from his cock would always stop him before he could feel that way. So he settled: instead of squeezing it so hard that he couldn’t breathe, he ran his hand up and down it rapidly. No lube, no spit, just hot, furious friction.

            In the dark, Donny bared his teeth like some sort of animal. He wanted to bite, and fuck, and kill kill kill. Instead he fisted his cock roughly, twisting his hand, squeezing the head as hard as he could stand. Behind his closed eyes he pictured the dozens of heads he had bashed in, the bright red blood matting their hair and coating his bat. He imagined the feel, the feel of that crack and that death, and as he did his left hand gripped his thigh, digging chewed-off fingernails into the flesh there. The muscles there were tender: he did this every night, and every night he bruised the flesh underneath his hands.

            A moan slipped through Donny’s gritted teeth. He was close now, the friction and pain and feeling of wet death all swirling together in his body, pooling in his lower stomach and focused with a line to his cock. Grinding his teeth, Donny rubbed his calloused fingers of the head of his cock, pressing into the slit roughly, then sliding back down and squeezing as hard as he could stand. Those fucking Nazi’s, all with their pretty blonde hair; the blood showed up so bright and red in it. His left hand clenched spasmodically at his thigh. So close to release…

            Hissing, he ran his hand up and down over his cock, hips thrusting uselessly. Little pieces of skin and dirt on his hand nipped at his cock, catching on the sensitive skin there, making the friction and pain and pressure build all the more. With one last sharp tug, Donny stiffened. All that anger and hate and warm wetness – might as well be blood – spilled out of him, covering his hand. He clenched his jaw, teeth trying to chew into each other in his mouth. His muscles strained and tightened, trying to break free, so eager to just kill kill kill and beat and tear and hate…

            Behind Donny’s squeezed-shut eyelids he saw red, and as his body relaxed beneath him he imagined it was blood, that blood that he saw every day, that blood that he squished out of the Nazi’s, that he brought into the light of day, where it wasn’t supposed to be. Slowly Donny unwrapped his fingers, one-by-one, from his cock; slowly Donny extracted his fingers from his left thigh, feeling the pricks of flesh as it tried to hang onto his fingernails for a moment, then snapped and fell back into place on his thigh.

            Donny opened his eyes and watched his breath steam in the air, rapid little puffs of smoke proving his life, his heat. On the cold days the blood from the Nazi’s would steam like that on the ground, heat escaping from their innards and floating away, free. This war was fucked up. Donny was fucked up. But he’d be damned if he wasn’t there tomorrow, beating the living fucking shit out of every mother fucking Nazi that crossed his path.


End file.
